My plan this morning was to write about a muddy puddle I saw at the side of the road on the way to my mother's house. There were eight or nine small birds, dunking and flapping and chirping, without a care in the world. Oblivious to the large vehicles of doom whizzing by at 40 mph, tiny Bathshebas luxuriating in a puddle of rain from the night before. I cannot get rid of the image, because as I passed by with envy, the sun happened to touch the puddle, sending beams of light on a diagonal. I could add a quote from the Bible here, but the puddle was enough.

I had also planned to write about this amazing Cajun music I heard that played at the end and during the credits of a movie I watched alone last night. Cajun music is not new to me, but this particular song was, as was the singer. The movie was not one I chose; it was on my son's Netflix queue and he fell asleep. So I watched In The Electric Mist, based on the book by James Lee Burke, In The Electric Mist with Confederate Dead. I admit to going to youtube to find the song, then playing it over and over. Haunting, but beautiful. I had to sing The Twelve Days of Christmas just to get it out of my head. (a lot of birds in that song...)

What ended up happening was there was dark thunder and heavy rain and I found myself in the chatterbox, talking about kittens, and the dangers of alcohol and smoking. I promise not to do that again; I can't type fast enough and I can't keep track of who is who. I always feel like I probably offend someone, so I do apologize if I did. Well that, and I suspect a few robots among us. I have decided to be nicer to robots, because the revolution's here.

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